


Overtime, Over Due

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Brat Tamer [20]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bottom Connor, Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Boys In Love, Collars, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Is a Brat, D/s, Desk Sex, Dom/sub, Fluffy Ending, Hank Anderson is Bad at Feelings, Hard Dom Hank Anderson, Hard Dom Having Soft Feelings, Look. Listen. I do what I want., M/M, Make it Gremlin but Make it Soft, Office Sex, Overstimulation, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Soft Ending, Stress Relief, Top Hank Anderson, Topping from the Bottom, Trust Kink, Workplace Sex, feral gremlin hours followed by soft hours, so many feeings, they fuckin on the desk yo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:33:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28370940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: “Hank.” The room fell into a breathless silence at the tone. Connor had called out Anderson’s name with a sharpness approaching a reprimand. It was common knowledge that the two of them were engaged, but no one, not even Connor, could talk to Anderson with that attitude. At least, not without paying some sort of price.--Anderson and Connor are overstressed, overworked, and undersexed leading up to winter break. Anderson is being a right grumpy bastard. Connor decides to do something about that.--This is part of an ongoing D/s series. Heed the tags.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Series: Brat Tamer [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1472171
Comments: 16
Kudos: 115





	Overtime, Over Due

It isn’t an unplanned thing, what Connor is doing, but he’d taken Anderson by surprise all the same. He’d thought it through to the end, considered all the possible outcomes, and taken deliberate, decisive action to maneuver his fiancé’s mood to its limits.

To Anderson’s eyes, it had started with the coffee. He’s a punctual man and tardiness itches under his skin like a festering infection.

“Sorry,” Connor had murmured as he slid into the seat he’d rocketed out of moments before. He’d explained with a garbled shout over his shoulder that he’d left his thermos on the counter. Anderson’s nostrils flared and his fingers flexed inside leather gloves against the steering wheel. He made a sound of annoyed acknowledgment as he checked his mirrors and twisted to reverse out of the driveway.

With his eyes on the commuters crunching through the dirty snow and his attention consumed by not exploding unreasonably at his fiancé, he didn’t feel Connor’s stare on his face. He didn’t see the fleeting smile or Connor’s slender fingers adjusting the tie around his neck for the third time that morning. Connor has a terrible poker face and Anderson knows all his tells. If this was going to work, he needed Anderson’s focus on anything but him.

Anderson wanted to explode, Connor knew. After weeks of negligible progress, accidental abstinence, and foul weather, they’re both in desperate need of a break. Physical touch, sensual or otherwise, was noticeably absent as their schedules became more grueling. Quality time, alone and without interruption, had become a ludicrous concept.

Anderson had barked out an ironic laugh when Connor mentioned making the most of the upcoming winter break, “You think the work will stop because the incompetent morons we’re trying to educate are on holiday?”

Connor had schooled his face into something approaching neutral at that. Between the two of them, he was more likely to brat himself into a corner. Still, Anderson wasn’t incapable of crossing lines. Connor had taken his fiancé’s surly replies and grumpy silences with more grace than Anderson probably deserved.

He could snipe back and poke at raw places. He knows Anderson well enough now to make words barrel into him like a gut punch. He isn’t interested in keeping score, though. He doesn’t want to start a never-ending contest of tit for tat. There were no winners in that game.

So, instead, Connor quietly acquiesced, “I suppose not.”

Anderson grumbled back a smarmy response bordering on obnoxious. Connor slipped into the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea as his brain churned through possibilities. He settled on his plan by the time the pot began to whistle its shrill indignation. He couldn’t help a small smile from tickling at the corners of his mouth, but he managed to swallow the Cheshire grin around some tea before Anderson could notice.

Anderson thawed slightly when Connor tugged wordlessly at his hand. The cup was a bitty thing and looked even smaller in Anderson’s large palm. It was a sipper without a handle and felt delicate folded between his thick fingers.

Any goodwill he’d felt evaporated as he waited impatiently for Connor to return with his travel mug. The students pushed his cloudy mood straight into the black with their festive, distracted attitudes. They were all tired and more than ready to put two weeks’ worth of distance between themselves and Anderson.

“Have you lost your mind or are you a complete idiot?” Connor’s head whipped around at that. Anderson could cut people to the bone with razor-sharp words. No one had made any critical errors yet, but Connor had prevented a few disasters as the students whittled away their last remaining hours in the lab. Anderson had, apparently, come across a mistake before Connor could run interference.

Perfect.

“Hank.” The room fell into a breathless silence at the tone. Connor had called out Anderson’s name with a sharpness approaching a reprimand. It was common knowledge that the two of them were engaged, but no one, not even Connor, could talk to Anderson with that attitude. At least, not without paying some sort of price.

Anderson didn’t turn to look at Connor, but the tension between his shoulder blades threatened to crack a rib. The student he’d been chastising stepped back several feet as if afraid he’d become collateral damage in the battle between the two professors. Anderson was petrifying, but Connor was no lightweight.

“Class,” Connor snapped open his briefcase and began loading papers. Students held their breath, recognizing the lead up to a dismissal. “I think that’s more than enough for today. Enjoy the winter break.”

Anderson hadn’t moved from his position at the worktable even as the students fled. He hadn’t bothered to cut Connor’s legs from under him. He could order the students to stay through the end of the hour, he knows, but it smacks of disrespect. He doesn’t participate in it and doesn’t tolerate it.

Connor can all but see the cogs turning in Anderson’s brain, formulating various ways to take Connor apart and vent his frustrations at once. He’s reached his boiling point and can’t see the trap he’s waltzing into through his own head of steam.

Connor continues packing his satchel with supreme calmness as Anderson seethes, fails, and tries again to get a grip on his frustration.

Anderson does his best to deescalate, but Connor’s punted the ball squarely in Anderson’s court. Even if Connor draws the line here, there’s always a cost for contempt. Anderson will have his pound of flesh, one way or another.

“Con—”

Connor hears the tone and his eyes glitter as he interrupts, “Office. Now.”

He leaves the room with rangy strides, not waiting for Anderson’s reply. Anderson follows with the fury of a charging bull. It takes him two tries to close the door as it flies back open from too much force. Turning, he finds Connor leaning against the desk with both palms flat to the surface. His right hip kicks out to one side and his shoulders bunch as if under pressure. If Connor thinks he’s stressed now, Anderson’s got quite the surprise waiting for him.

“We have a problem, _sir_.” Anderson freezes in his tracks like a predator suddenly discovering its prey isn’t quite as weak as anticipated. He knows the tone and his brain struggles to juggle his anger, his exasperation, and this unexpected turn.

Connor gestures at the seat in front of the desk without looking at his fiancé, “Sit.”

A tremor of irritation ripples across his face, “You’re on shaky ground, boy.”

He expects Connor to react harshly to the reprimand, to snap something bitter and acerbic at the implication of his immaturity.

He does not expect Connor to turn and lean against the desk with folded arms, “It wasn’t a request. Sit.” One slender finger points at Anderson like a malediction before swinging wide to the lone office chair. Anderson stalks toward him, ready to contort him into an apologetic ball of need. Connor’s hand moves unconsciously to his throat, tugging at his tie.

It’s a nervous habit and something Anderson hasn’t seen in a long time.

_You’re scaring him, for fuck’s sake._

Scowling deeply at Connor as much as at himself, he pivots and circles the desk. He needs to do something with his hands before he explodes. He doesn’t want Connor to be afraid of him. Respect and fear aren’t the same things, and the latter is a distinctly awful thing to expect from the person he loves most.

He doesn’t sit, but he motions for Connor to move the conversation along. It’s a compromise that pleases neither of them. Connor fingers at this tie again, and something tumbles in Anderson’s brain without making its mark. He’s missing something, overlooking something, and he knows it’s obvious. It’s enraging and pours fuel on the fire roaring inside him.

“You’re stressed,” Connor starts with the obvious, leaving Anderson little room to maneuver. “You’re snapping at me. You’re biting students’ heads off like some deranged beast.” Anderson’s mouth opens in an angry gash, ready to argue, but his tongue goes slack in his mouth as he watches his fiancé’s hand.

Connor pulls at his tie harshly until the ends hang around his neck like shoelaces. A metal ring glints gleefully in the light as Connor shifts his stance. Anderson’s jaw droops as his brain brings him back up to speed, momentarily derailed. Connor gives Anderson’s chest a slight push with his fingertips and he finally gives in to Connor’s request to take a seat.

Seizing the advantage like reins, Connor straddles Anderson with practiced ease. It’s been a while, too long, since they’d made use of the privacy of their office. Still, his knees remember where best to rest to avoid discomfort.

“The students need a break. We need this break.” Connor’s fingers release the topmost button of his shirt to bring the collar into full view. Dark leather loops around his neck like a brand, boring into Anderson’s eyes. He shifts his hips in small gyrations and lets his head droop to one side as he sighs.

“What?” Anderson’s dick strains behind his zipper as Connor continues to undulate in his lap, evidently suffering none of its owner’s confusion.

Languid brown eyes crack open into a hooded stare, raising the temperature in the room by several degrees, “You can take me home, or you can take me here, but you aren’t setting foot in that lab again until you fuck me like you mean it.”

Anderson’s fingers flex against the arms of the chair, itching to dig into the pale flesh of Connor’s hips, his unruly curls, his mouth—anywhere, really, if he could only decide where to begin.

Connor reads Anderson’s hesitation with ease. He grips Anderson by the hair, bringing their foreheads together, “Everyone’s gone home for the holidays. It’s just you and me.”

A low sound reverberates in Anderson’s throat like a growl, unshackling the last of his limited restraint. He rises from the chair, taking Connor with him. He pins Connor to his chest with a heavy, unyielding arm as his lips latch onto Connor’s neck just above the collar. Connor exhales a breathy, fragile sound and Anderson seizes upon it like a beast scenting blood. 

“Turn around,” the words leave his throat as if mixed with gravel, and Connor shivers in anticipation as he complies. Anderson shoves several folders to the side with enough force that one tumbles to the floor. Papers scatter in protest, but Anderson doesn’t pay them any attention. Connor leans back into his chest, soaking in the feral energy barely contained under Anderson’s skin. He twists, seeking Anderson’s mouth, indulging in a moment of tenderness.

Anderson’s hands rove Connor’s body as if trying to decide which part of him to maul first. In the end, he breaks the kiss to press a massive palm to Connor’s spine. Connor bends without argument until his elbows lay flush to the dark and gleaming wood.

Even with such a large dry spell, Anderson knows Connor’s body better than his own. He works him open with practiced ease, not wasting time on clothing. Connor’s pants hang slackly around his knees and patches of pale skin show through his fine dress shirt where it’s beginning to stick to a thin sheen of sweat. Connor’s breath leaves him in harsh pants, fogging the desk in humid patches.

The first slick slide is like heaven as heat envelops the tip of his flushed, leaking cock. Connor bucks back, greedily taking more dick than Anderson had initially given him.

“Easy,” Anderson grumbles, trying to ease Connor into it after weeks of inactivity.

Connor peers over his shoulder and the pure, liquid lust contained in his gaze slams into Anderson full force, “I told you to fuck me. I’m not saying it again.”

Something dark uncoils in Anderson’s gut as he curls thick fingers around the back of Connor’s neck for better leverage. He’d intended to show restraint, to hold back the deluge of frustration screaming for retribution, to take Connor apart, to bury into him to the hilt and revel in his debauched screams.

At the first slam of his hips, Connor lurches forward several inches across the desk. Anderson hauls him back by his grip on Connor’s neck, impaling him again. There’s no time to acclimate, no pause to recover from the sudden onslaught against his prostate.

For the first time, Connor’s howl echoes around the office. If Anderson cares about the noise, he doesn’t show any signs of slowing.

“Oh— _fuck_ —oh, god—” Connor babbles in a broken stream of expletives and half-formed words. He struggles to contain the pitch of the sounds he’s making, but he’s beyond caring. It’s a lost cause, and there’s no one around to reprimand them regardless.

Anderson seems to come to a similar conclusion as he abruptly hauls Connor against him. Buried to the hilt, he sinks back into his chair. His hand grips Connor by the throat in a facsimile of a choke. His fingers tense against the slender column, resting over the collar there. The neck of Connor’s shirt hangs loosely and Anderson bites at his exposed, freckled shoulder. Connor whimpers and writhes, trying to goad Anderson back into motion.

Anderson’s arm tightens across Connor’s chest, restricting his range of motion. Connor’s dick strains and twitches, leaving wet patches against his shirtfront. His hands rest gently over Anderson’s wrist as if the hand wrapped around his neck is an anchor. Anderson grins into Connor’s hair as he reaches around with his free hand to stroke him slow and mean.

“ _Ffffuck_ ,” Connor groans at the casual perusal of his dick. He isn’t prepared for Anderson to continue railing him. Anderson usually dragged out this part, driving Connor wild with lust. Instead, he withdraws and slams back into Connor hard enough to make him bounce in his lap. His hand remains in place, jacking Connor’s length from the force of his thrusts.

“Is. This. What. You. Wanted?” Anderson hisses each word as he pistons into Connor’s body.

Connor cries out at the renewed onslaught, struggling to string together a response. Anderson grants him no quarter and maintains his pace.

He squeezes Connor’s dick and loops a finger through the collar to give it a yank, “ _Is it?_ ”

“ _Haa—FUCK—Han—yes, sIR!”_ Connor’s commitment to the scene always takes Anderson by surprise. He calls Anderson by name in the classroom. He’s gotten into the habit of saying it around the house as well to avoid awkward moments with guests. Moments like these, however, when they’re alone, when they let down their guard, when Connor lays himself bare for Anderson to _take_ —it does unnatural things to Anderson’s soul.

Warmth erupts at the base of Anderson’s skull and his gut clenches in warning. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Connor does this to him on purpose. Connor has found the soft places in Anderson’s heart and made a home there. Less than twenty minutes ago, he was ready to destroy the lab. Now, with one well-timed _sir_ , he’s ready to combust for this infuriating, perfect person.

Connor’s hand moves from Anderson’s wrist to the fingers resting over his throat. He squeezes them slightly in a gesture of implicit trust, as husky sounds of delirious pleasure tumble from his lips. It’s unfair, it’s cheating—it has to be—but it topples Anderson over the edge. He roars a sound in the approximation of Connor’s name as his hips stutter in surprised release.

Anderson mouths an almost-kiss tiredly against the shell of Connor’s ear. He’d funneled his rage and unspent testosterone into fucking Connor stupid. He hadn’t anticipated the aftermath of so much adrenaline surging through his veins.

Connor’s breath comes out of him in ragged puffs and his head flops back against Anderson’s shoulder. He tries not to squirm with Anderson’s sensitive, still-semi-hard cock embedded inside him, but his rigid dick demands attention. Anderson may be tired, but he’s not an ogre.

“C’mon. On your feet.” Connor rises gingerly and squawks in surprise when Anderson pushes him flat on his stomach. Sprawled across the desk, he can feel Anderson’s come run down the inside of his thigh. A heavy weight settles over his back as Anderson’s stomach fills in the curve of Connor’s spine.

He murmurs soft things, some of it nonsense, as he plunges thick fingers wetly into Connor’s loose hole. He mewls and arches when Anderson finds his prostate with practiced ease. He can’t help but work at it mercilessly, soaking in every needy sound Connor gives him.

“Sir, please,” Connor exhales the request, and Anderson knows what he’s after. He won’t make him beg. Connor sobs out a wordless sound that is equal parts want and gratitude when thick fingers wrap around his shaft. Anderson thumbs at the pearlescent tip, swirling at the mess there without comment.

Anderson knows Connor won’t last long this way, not with Anderson working him over inside and out with demanding strokes. Still, Connor struggles against the inevitable as if waiting for something.

Anderson gives it to him without hesitation, “Let go, sweetheart. Come for me.”

It’s absurd, he knows, to think he has that much control over the matter. Still, it’s the idea that Connor wants this, that he’ll hold out for as long as he can to give Anderson this moment, that’s wildly appealing. Anderson wants to catalog everything about this day, from it’s late start to the moment Connor comes with a shrieked, incoherent sound on the office floor.

Anderson’s eyes glow like embers trying to rekindle as he runs a finger along the collar still in clear view. He stays where he is for several moments, enjoying the thrum of Connor’s heartbeat returning to somewhat normal. He’s warm and soft. He can see the secret freckle that hides behind Connor’s ear. Life, the lab, and the wreck they’ve made in the office can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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